


When I am silent

by zjofierose



Series: Sheith Angst Week 2018 [6]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Astral Projection, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M, Muteness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 07:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15881103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: "When I am silent, I have thunder hidden inside."- RumiAfter they take his arm, they take his tongue.





	When I am silent

After they take his arm, they take his tongue.

They have a soldier rip it out by the root, one of Haggar’s druids supervising, and he chokes on the blood in his mouth as he screams wordlessly in pain. He nearly dies: there’s so much blood, and they’re not experienced yet with what humans can lose before they can’t lose anymore. They must cauterize it with something, at some point, but thankfully he’s passed out by then, succumbing to senseless dark, waking alone and cold on the metal floor of his cell. 

The wound becomes infected, and he spends a week shivering and shaking in a corner, delirious and dreaming with fever. It hurts like no pain he’s felt before, arm amputation included, and when his body finally turns the corner and decides to live after all, he lies limply on the floor, unwilling and unable to do anything more.

He wants to die. He wants it with a shocking clarity he could never have imagined. All his life he’s been focused, driven; he’s spent his days even on Earth living with pain, with disillusionment, with having to overcome every barrier set in front of him, and he has prided himself on never, never giving up. It’s who he is, who he’s always been: someone who stays focused, stays positive - who acknowledges the difficulties of life, and then systematically works to overcome them.

Not anymore. They have made a broken thing of him, and he lies crumpled on the floor in silence.

\--

For the first few months after, he will still occasionally try to speak before he remembers that he can’t. He hates the garbled sounds that emerge, animalistic grunts and moans that betray him and his condition, and as he slowly gathers himself back together, fractured piece by fractured piece, he silences himself entirely. His voice is the glue he uses to anchor each shard of his psyche to another, the thread that stitches his wounds closed. His words are the price he pays for the determination to get himself free.

And he does get free. He moves silently through the corridors, steals a ship, and crashes into the desert, not a word needed for any of it. He can’t protest when the Garrison captures him and straps him to a table, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway - no argument he could make would have stopped them, no point he could have raised would have convinced them to act any differently. 

Keith comes for him, because of course he does, and hauls him away without so much as a by-your-leave, no time for greetings or explanations, only time to be loaded on a hoverbike and escaped into the desert. When they arrive at the cabin, the words overflow all at once from everyone, more speech than Shiro’s heard in a year. It’s a river of sound rushing around him, and Keith takes one look at him standing in the corner, swaying with exhaustion and over-stimulation, and whisks him upstairs to put him to bed.

Keith doesn’t press, though Shiro can tell he’s noticed that Shiro hasn’t said a single word. Keith pushes him into the shower and sets out a towel and clean clothes for him when he’s done. There’s a glass of water on the bedside table and an extra blanket on the foot of the bed when Shiro emerges from the bathroom, and he is suddenly both unspeakably grateful and unutterably tired. Keith lets him basically fall into bed before leaning over him for a long moment, studying him carefully. The hurt in Keith’s eyes is old and settled, a match for Shiro’s own, and he couldn’t have known that they would still be so in tune, but he should have suspected as much, he thinks, and reaches up to settle a hand on Keith’s cheek. 

“It’s good to have you back,” Keith says softly, and Shiro pulls his face down to touch their foreheads together for a long breath, trying to give as much as he can into the contact. “Go to sleep,” Keith says after a while, pulling away gently. “I’ll get the rest of them settled and come back up soon.”

Shiro nods, already feeling his eyes closing with the promise of a mattress and pillow, and lets his hand fall.

\--

It’s obvious to everyone in the morning that Shiro isn’t speaking, but Keith is the only one who really knew him before, and since he’s blatantly decided to treat it as the elephant in the room, the rest mostly follow suit, at least at first. There’s an awkward moment near the end of breakfast when Keith shuts Lance up with a vicious glare before he’s even halfway through asking Shiro what happened to him. Shiro isn’t sure if Lance means the arm or the silence or just a more sort of general “what the hell went down,” but either way, Lance stops cold at the look in Keith’s eyes. After that, they stick to yes and no questions, which Shiro can nod or shake his head to, and that’s enough for the moment. 

Keith takes to watching him like a hawk. Shiro wants to be annoyed by it, because honestly, he’s not a child, but it feels too good to be the focus of someone’s concern for him to fight it very hard. Keith keeps him fed, gets him hydrated, forces him upstairs again to inspect him for wounds, and Shiro resists on that count, but Keith manhandles him up to the top floor without breaking a sweat, which… Keith was always strong, but that’s new. Shiro files it away for future inspection, and allows Keith to bandage the various minor cuts and bruises from his landing. It’s not quite what their relationship was, but Shiro had expected that there was no going back, that it would have to change.

What he doesn’t expect is for Keith to become his interpreter. As it turns out, Keith is something of an expert in Shiro’s facial expressions and body language, and hasn’t forgotten a single nuance in the year and change that Shiro’s been gone.

“No, not that way,” Keith says as they’re looking at the map, “Shiro thinks we should go east instead.”

“How do you know?” Lance demands immediately, and Shiro wishes he could say the same thing. 

“It’s obvious,” Keith answers disgustedly, and Pidge squints between the two of them speculatively. 

“Is he right, Shiro?” she asks, and Shiro nods. He can’t say how Keith knows, but that’s what he was thinking as he stared at the map and listened to them bicker. “Ok, then,” she says, and shrugs. “Let’s go east.”

\--

They steal the lion and launch themselves into space, and find the Castle of Lions, and through it all, everyone is deferring to him as leader. It makes absolutely no sense, he’s a mess who can’t even speak, the only reason he can think of that they’re acting this way is because they’re all so used to the military hierarchy. He outranks them, but the idea that he’s the most qualified person to take charge of this absurd scenario they’re in is farcical. 

The problem as it stands, however, is that he can’t make himself understood to anyone but Keith, and Keith is the one most steadfastly promoting him as their leader, for reasons that Shiro absolutely cannot fathom. 

“Ah!” says Coran, “a mute leader! A noble tradition amongst the Pani-Panu, dating back a thousand generations!” 

“I don’t see how this is going to work,” Lance grumbles behind them, and Shiro knows his own face agrees, but Keith is very good at only watching Shiro’s expressions when he wants to, and thus is equally good at ignoring any hint that Shiro doesn’t think he should be the ringleader of this particular circus. “How’s he even going to tell us what to do? Just because he’s got a psychic bond with Keith doesn’t mean the  _ rest  _ of us are gonna know what’s up.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Keith says determinedly, and that’s the tone of voice he gets where there is absolutely no reasoning with him. Shiro can’t decide if he’s more completely overjoyed that he gets to hear that voice again or more horrified that it’s directed at such an unnecessary and unhelpful goal. He keeps getting overwhelmed by surreality or grief or gratitude, lost in the unexpectedness of freedom, of friendship. It’s just another reason that he’s not fit to lead this team, he thinks, and ducks his head so his face doesn’t show. 

\--

He pulls Keith aside a day later, careful to use his human hand. He doesn’t trust the metal arm with something as precious as Keith, doesn’t know what it will do to trusting flesh. 

“What?” Keith asks, surprised. They’re in an empty corridor in the vastness of the castle ship, but Shiro pulls them around a bend into a dead end viewing port. “Is something wrong?”

Shiro nods emphatically, pointing to himself, and then back in the vague directions of the control room, before shaking his head hard. 

“What do you mean, you shouldn't be leader? Why not?” Keith folds his arms and leans back against the wall, expression mulish. 

Shiro gives him his best  _ are you fucking kidding me  _ look, but Keith just rolls his eyes. 

“What, because you have a robotic hand? So what? That’s probably an advantage- it looks like it’s a lot stronger than a human arm, and it also looks like you could shoot lasers out of it, so that’s neat.”

Now it’s Shiro’s turn to roll his eyes. He points to his throat, his mouth, and makes the universal opening-closing-fingers-and-thumb gesture for talking, then shakes his head. 

“Yeah,” Keith says, voice rough, and looks away. “Look, Shiro, you don’t have to tell me what they did to you, but…”

Shiro couldn’t say later what possess him: maybe it’s just the desire to confess, the opportunity to be seen and heard for the first time in over a year. Before he thinks about what he’s doing, he gets his fingers under Keith’s chin and lifts it, holding Keith’s gaze as he opens his mouth. He sees the moment when Keith’s gaze falls to the empty space where his tongue should be, sees his expression waver between nauseated and fierce, watches him clench his fists as Shiro closes his mouth in shame. 

“I’m going to kill them for what they’ve done to you,” Keith says, his voice deathly calm, “but nothing you’ve shown me so far disqualifies you from being the best person we have to be in charge of this shit show.”

He can’t be serious, Shiro thinks, but there’s nothing to indicate otherwise in Keith’s expression, so he settles his human hand on Keith’s shoulder, and points deliberately with the other to his head.  _ I’m not fit _ , he thinks as loudly as he can,  _ you can’t trust me.  _ I _ can’t trust me. There are things they did to me that I don’t even remember. You can’t have me in charge of something this important; I’m compromised. _

“Shiro,” Keith says, covering Shiro’s hand with his own, his dark eyes wide and open, “I don’t care how batshit crazy you think you are, you were the only one of us trained for this. You are the  _ only  _ one with the knowledge, and the skill,  and the experience, and the charisma to make this work.” He pauses to draw in a shuddering breath, and Shiro sees with sudden clarity how afraid Keith actually is. “I know you’re not in a good place right now, and I’m sorry, I’m  _ so  _ sorry that you have to do this. But you’re our only real hope, you know?”

Keith is… not completely wrong, Shiro thinks with a sense of impending resignation. It must show on his face, because Keith steps forward and wraps his arms around him, startling Shiro into stillness before he clumsily responds, hugging Keith back and letting his face fall to Keith’s neck and hide.

“I’ll help you, ok? I’ll help.” Keith breathes out again, more steadily this time, and Shiro nods slowly into Keith’s shoulder as Keith’s voice sounds quietly in his ear. “I’ll never give up on you.”

\-- 

Three days later Shiro is hanging out in the lounge, trying to read as much as he can about the castle and the lions and King Alfor and Altean history. If he can’t speak, at least he can try to know what he’s doing; maybe if he can demonstrate things, lead by example, that will help the other Paladins get a grasp on what they’re doing. It’s not a great idea, but it’s the best he has, and so he’s been staying up every night since they came here trying to cram as much knowledge as he can into the scrambled egg that passes for his brain these days. It’s weirdly reminiscent of the pre-finals fugue state he used to enter twice a year, and he half expects to hear his old roommate come into the room and slam his books on a flat surface while moaning in defeat.

Instead, he’s startled from his reverie by the gleeful arrival of Pidge, who flings herself down in front of him and shoves a small device into his hand. 

“We made you a thing,” she declares, and Hunk nods encouragingly from behind her. “Try it on!”

He turns it over in his hand. It has what look like holders that attach over the ears, and then some flat, flexible wires that run down and connect in front, below which hangs something that looks suspiciously like a micro speaker. He raises a questioning eyebrow, and Pidge huffs an impatient breath.

“Here, they go over like this,” she says, situating the holders over his ears, so he was right about that much at least. “And then open,” she applies pressure to the tip of his chin and his mouth opens automatically, just long enough for her to pop the wires just inside his lips before he catches himself and closes it. “Then this goes…” she adjusts the speaker, settling it just under his jawline, “here, and, all set!”

Shiro looks at Hunk for help.

“It’s a voicebox,” Hunk says, smiling. “Try to make a word.”

He’s suddenly, viscerally aware of every piece of equipment on his body - the thrum of the metal arm, the pressure of the biomechanics of his flight suit, the strangeness of these wires in his mouth. He hates it, but they’re so hopeful, and they’re just trying to help. He unclenches his fist before he pulverizes one of the couch cushions, and makes a face.

“It should sense the shape your mouth is making and the amount of air released as you form the word, and speak the correct sound for you,” Hunk explains, and Shiro nods in comprehension. “It won’t sound like you, of course, and it’ll have a bit of an adjustment period while it learns the patterns of your speech, but.”

“Putt I hood dalk,” Shiro says, and immediately claps his hands over his mouth.

Pidge throws herself at him, crowing with success, and Hunk looks suspiciously misty-eyed. 

“There,” she says, “I knew we could do it!”

“You have to talk as much as possible,” Hunk cautions him, and Shiro can tell that he knows this is a tall order. “It’s how it’ll learn what you’re saying. It has to get used to the shape of your vocalizations.” He shrugs his broad shoulders and scratches at the back of his shaggy head. “Maybe read aloud? That should give a pretty good range of words and sounds.”

Shiro nods in acknowledgement. It’s a good idea, and a considerate one. He can hole up in his quarters, and sound out the texts, and no one will be the wiser.

He looks from one to the other of them, seeing for the first time the hopeful anticipation waiting in their eyes. He doesn’t have a clue why they want his approval, but he has so little to give these days, it won’t hurt him to give them this.

“Dank you,” he says, and they beam in unison.

\--

It takes a couple of weeks, but the device becomes pretty accurate pretty quickly, certainly accurate enough to be used in battle and in planning discussions. He hates the robotic tone of it at first, but gradually becomes accustomed to it, and learns to use breath pressure to add emphasis to certain words as needed. There are a few funny misunderstandings at first, and he takes to calling Pidge by her given name, because he never can figure out how to make the damn thing differentiate between “pidge” and “pitch”, and then there’s the memorable time that it makes his “p” into a “b”, and well. He’s never apologized so profusely or been laughed at so thoroughly, and “Katie” is a perfectly fine name all on its own.

Still, he wears it as little as possible. It’s not the same as his Galra arm, attached without his consent and harboring gods-only-know-what Trojan gifts in its sleek chrome innards, but it’s still an attachment, another omni-present reminder of his loss, of his failings. He’s nearly forgotten the memory of his own voice, and it saddens him, but he prefers his silence to the artificiality of the speaker, no matter how much Hunk and Pidge tinker with it to make it more natural.

He certainly never wears it to spar, and so he’s device-free and exhausted late one night six months into their tour as Paladins when Keith gets a lucky kick into Shiro’s left kidney, and he shouts in surprise. He can’t tell who’s more shocked, him or Keith, but Keith is wearing a look on his face like he’s just seen a long-lost friend, and Shiro honestly doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“I…” Keith starts, then shakes his head ruefully, “I didn’t know if you could still make sounds at all.” He reaches out instinctively to Shiro’s throat, but catches himself and brings his hand back down. “Did you?”

Shiro shrugs. He’d known he could at first, but he’d honestly not been sure if he still could, or if his vocal chords had atrophied due to lack of use. It feels strange and unsettling to know they’re still there, that they could betray him at any time and leave him grunting like an animal, moaning and incoherent like he was back in his cell, writhing in pain and humiliation.

“I miss it,” Keith whispers, one hand on Shiro’s shoulder. He’s taller now, tall enough to look Shiro in the face without lifting his chin. “I miss the sound of your voice. I miss how we used to talk. I still hear it sometimes when I dream, but…” Keith’s voice cracks audibly, and he turns, pulling himself together and breathing roughly for a long moment before he spins back into a fighting stance.

Shiro shuts his lips on everything he can never say to Keith, and mimics his pose. 

_ Ready _ , he nods, and they begin.

\--

The astral plane is an accidental discovery, as is the yell he gives of Keith’s name as he sees the body laid out a little ways from him. The battle is over, but he runs to Keith’s side faster than thought, reaching down to cradle him in his arms.

“Keith,” he says, and he hasn’t heard his own voice in so long he doesn’t recognize it, and looks around to see who spoke. 

Keith’s eyes widen, and he coughs, hauling himself upright and staring at Shiro in shock.

“Say it again,” he demands, his fist tight in the neck of Shiro’s armor. “My name. _ Say it _ .”

“Keith,” Shiro breathes, “ _ Keith _ ,” and Keith’s hand comes up to touch Shiro’s mouth, his eyes wide and shining with stars. 

“I love you,” Shiro says then, because he’s had a lot of time now to think of what he would say to Keith if he could, and this was always at the top of the list. He says it again, carefully and slow, just to hear the words in his own voice, to be sure they come out right. 

“Keith,” he says, and Keith’s crying freely now, they both are, and Shiro thinks he may shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment, “ _ I love you _ .”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Day 6 of Sheith Angst Week: prompt - Torture. Unbeta'd and of questionable quality, just like all the rest.
> 
> Also, I'd like to be clear that I'm not trying to imply in any way that muteness/dumbness/speech disorders/assistive devices/etc are bad or are something that folks should feel bad about. What Shiro is dealing with here is the result of torture, and is being processed only somewhat healthily (after a while) through a lens of PTSD.


End file.
